


A Bucket and a Mop

by sjnt



Series: The Face of the Plateau [1]
Category: As You Are (2016)
Genre: Abuse, Ambiguity, Angst, Canon Queer Relationship, Drugs, Fluid Sexuality, Friendship, Guns, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Plot With Porn, Porn with Feelings, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjnt/pseuds/sjnt
Summary: Mark tells himselfThis is what I want. This will make things better.Sometimes, he even believes it.





	A Bucket and a Mop

They’re outside, not playing Asteroids, and Jack asks _Why are you just coming to school now_? He replies, unconcerned, _Paperwork_ , _I guess_. Jack says _Cool_ , and they keep smoking.

The truth is that for years Mark’s attendance has been…inconsistent. In a few places he’s lived, that’s being charitable.

They drove to this small shit town from a decaying mill town in New England. His dad worked there for a bit as a night watchmen, a handful of landlords and business owners beefing up on security as property values nosedived, as across town the buildings were going up in actual flames.

There, his school sucked. Truly sucked. Not the way Capital does with its clueless kids, smug teachers and boring classes. There, sucking meant not enough desks, not enough books, not enough toilet paper. But plenty of mold and rats and roaches.

The teachers and administrators were jaded, overwhelmed, burnt out. The Pig-pen stink of transience, instability, and loneliness that wafts from his paperwork:  his dad’s (lack of) job, his (lack of) mom; his multiple addresses, multiple schools, eligibility for reduced lunch, mid-year transfers, incomplete transcripts, shitty grades, poor attendance and behavior reports. The records that have teachers side-eyeing him, sharing significant glances, accusing _you won’t finish the year, will you?_ Didn’t phase them. That described most of the students. At least they didn’t need to teach him to speak English. At least he could read. They shrugged at his stoned skater boy attempts to grab attention. Today they called 911. Three times. Was he terrorizing the other students and teachers? No? Carry on.

After a few weeks he basically stopped showing up – was around enough so they wouldn’t flunk him, make him repeat. No one phoned his dad.

It’s not that he hates school. It’s not home. He’s expert at finding his niche. By the first week he knows where to buy weed, find the girls craving fresh blood, make friends with the guys who’d rather skip.

He keeps it simple. Registers when he has nothing better to do, attends when he’s in the mood.  Soon he’ll be in another state, in a new town that might seem different from the last, but scratch the surface and it’s the same - past its prime, a place anyone with sense runs from, not towards. His dad, anyway, doesn’t pay much attention unless he accidentally, or in the heady, too often regretted rush of his own anger, reminds him. They got their shit together this week because they’re meeting Karen and Jack.

_You haven’t registered yet? What the hell have you been doing? Get on it. You boys might share classes._

When Dad tells him he’s dating a local, is serious about her if you believe his smug grin, with a boy his age, going to Capital, he can’t suppress an eye-roll, a groan of _You’re kidding_ …. A woman dim, desperate enough to be with his dad, let alone fall in love with him, is a woman he wants to avoid as long as possible. Never mind adding a kid to the mix who he’s, what, supposed to become friends with?

He sulks in the truck until he’s ordered to come out and introduce himself. Only middle schoolers behave like that, but why should he put in the effort, put on he cares? It’ll end as it always does. With tears and screaming, broken bottles, and cans of baked beans become missiles.

Mark winds and winds himself up…and dinner turns out much better than he expected. Karen is indeed out to lunch. A scrawny, faded blonde googly eyeing Dad like he’s a prize she’s been lucky enough to win. She’s not a complete doormat, though; is skeptical when he’s at his most embarrassing, when he shows off how little he knows.

Jack turns out to be a quiet, small town mama’s boy. But completely aware he is, and very relaxed about it. Smoking outside with Jack, his irritation at being part of an awkward double date fades. The weed’s a factor. Mostly it’s that Jack isn’t half bad to talk to. He expected that by the end of the night he’d be bullshitting about pentagrams and blood sacrifices, trying to provoke him. Instead, Karen invites him and Dad to her and Jack’s place - to have dinner, hang out - and he’s not dreading it.

********

The one thing he and Dad agree on is they can’t stand each other. They take perverse pride in it, that they’re stuck together, wishing, hoping, praying the other will meet with an unfortunate accident. It makes for quiet breakfasts, silent dinners, and when they’re not, full of conversations like:

 _How the hell am I supposed to have a life with you a fucking delinquent, scaring everyone off_?

 _Yessir_ , _must change my ways, sir._

_Your free ride will be over soon enough. The Marines will straighten you out, and I can’t wait to see it._

_Looking forward to that. Dad._

It’s a relief, no matter how hopeless and helpless she is, when a girlfriend is around.

Before Karen there were the exes, an interchangeable cast of lunchtime beer drinkers with low expectations and tight lipped smiles. They’d spend the night, and if they had a kid not old enough to be left home alone and no one to babysit, they’d bring them along, leave them to have a sleepover with Mark. He watched TV with them, plied them with ice cream, let them noodle around with his guitar while he warned _Jesus, be careful_ and took deep breaths.

He gave them his bed. If it was a girl he took the couch, not being trustworthy enough to share a room with a four or six or eight-year old – the exes glaring at him, labelling him a pervert. If they brought a boy over, Mark crashed on the floor next to the bed to keep him company. It’s hard enough to be at a stranger’s house, your mom down the hall, banging the creepy mustache guy, without adding to the list sleeping on the floor or the couch, alone.

When Karen asked the two of them to move in with her and Jack – _Become a family_ \- he was casual, said _Cool_ when Jack gave him the news. But he was, in fact, fucking _happy_.

Since the very beginning it’s been easy spending time with Jack - hour after hour, day after day. Like they’ve known each other for years. Jack’s a partner in crime? But he’s had those before. A brother? But brothers don’t automatically get along, and from what Mark’s seen are mostly a giant pain in the ass. A best friend. Though he hasn’t thought that way since he was eleven.

Once or twice, just once or twice, it’s felt a little…close. A little _much_. He can’t rub one out without Jack hearing him. He can’t fart without Jack mentioning it, in case he forgot what he did five seconds ago, can’t fucking smell it himself. 

But the fact he’s sharing tight quarters with _Jack_ makes the day-to-day much better than it might have been. Jack doesn’t talk much. He’s even keeled, easy-going, content. The opposite of Mark.

For no particular reason, he’ll wake up and be… _mad_ …itching for a fight. On those days he snarks, bitches, rants. Is nasty, occasionally too personal. Jack doesn’t take the bait. He reties his sneakers, fiddles with his hair, realigns the strings on his sweatshirt hood. Widens his eyes and looks sympathetic. If Mark’s feeling especially mean and none of these tactics meet with success Jack wanders off. But then he comes back. Sits. Listens.

********

Jack’s really, really, really upset about Kurt, and Mark cannot relate. Ok, he’ll admit it’s a little sad. There are two or three good-to-great albums they’ll never have a chance to listen to. He left Frances Bean to be raised by her crazy fucking mom. But they don’t know him. If Jack shot himself and Kurt was alive and heard about it, he’d say _too bad_ or _stupid kid_. Then he’d go on with his day.

Sarah drops unsubtle hints about prom, but he’s too distracted by Jack to do more than give her a pat on the head. 

Jack doesn’t laugh at his joke, but there’s always getting high.

He discovered the attic space one morning when he was roaming around campus, breaking into a couple of boarded up buildings no one had bothered tearing down after they’d been replaced with newer, shinier versions. When he found it he was excited, thrilled. He immediately returned to school, hung around the hallways to grab Jack between classes and show him. It’s _perfect_. Jack, an advocate of daily showers, took persuading. Yes, it’s smelly and dusty. There are bugs everywhere. And mice. The springs in the couches and chairs broke years ago. When it’s warm outside, the room is sweltering. When it’s cold, your breath turns to fog. But it’s their very own space. No Karen, no Dad. No teachers, no stupid kids. They could be anywhere, not in this small shit school, in this small shit town.

Freedom. He settles in his chair. Rolls a joint, lets his mind wander.

Jack was crying, in the field, by the side of the road. About a probably dead rock star. Mark wrapped his arms around him. Rocked him and felt the tears dribble down his neck. But was tempted to cackle, poke Jack in the ribs, tell him to snap out of it. He was grateful to have a minute to compose himself, rest his chin on Jack’s shoulder and wipe his face clean.

He can be so earnest, so serious. So naïve.

Mark has a revelation. Jack should take Sarah to prom. That might cheer him up, and he could kill two birds. It’s obvious Sarah wants him to take her. But he doesn’t want her that way. Even though she’s gorgeous and amazing and when he first met her he thought maybe he did, and she’s right there and it would be so easy.

No. He’d have to be a total asshole to do that to her.

Jack also says _No_. Then drops a bomb - tells him he’s never kissed anyone. Ever. He cannot fucking believe it. Wait, he can believe it. Jack’s as shy they come. Mark can’t imagine him making the first move. He’d say Jack’s more a girl than a boy that way, but plenty of times he hasn't done more than smile at a girl and she's jumping his bones.

He could, clearly, benefit from Mark’s experience. Again. He’s taught Jack how to properly roll a joint, play the drums, ollie (they’re still working on that), shoot a gun (well that was mostly Dad, but he did set a good example). Why not this too? He joins Jack on the couch. _I’m going to teach you how to kiss._

Jack’s embarrassed. _No way should we be talking about this. It’s too personal_. _I’m too high_. But he’s faking. He doesn’t mind talking about this with _Mark_. Jack has that expression he’s seen a million times - half baked, eyes shining, smiling at him. Jack’s looking at him like he’s the best thing in the entire world.

That sweatshirt, always with the hood up, his hair peeking out the side. Jack loves it. Mark imagines a girl (Sarah if Jack would speak up) fisting his hair, pulling Jack towards her. 

He quickly runs out of advice. There’s only so much you can tell people about how to kiss. Jack’s waiting for more, and in the silence that follows he realizes he should show Jack how to kiss. He’s been told he’s a good kisser. Friends should help each other out, right? How else is Jack going to learn?

Since he’s not a rapist he announces his idea. Jack’s scared, turns away. When he turns around it’s clear that he’s changed his mind. Is, in fact, intrigued. Mark leans forward. His initial plan, though nothing he does while high should be called anything so grand as a plan, is to give more advice – less teeth, stop licking my face. But Jack’s practically shaking. He has to coax his mouth open, giving him a touch of tongue (to demonstrate lesson #1), using his hand to keep him in place. Jack’s hair brushes against it as he relaxes, as his lips, slick from the chapstick he’s obsessed with, start to move against Mark’s.

He wants to bite Jack’s bottom lip. Suck on his tongue? Before he can decide if Jack would find that weird he’s pulling away, and they’re laughing about how high they are.

That got him out of his funk.

********

“Your dad hates me.”

“He hates everyone.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Until ten minutes ago it was a perfect day. He could have framed it. Now it’s shit. The weed’s worn off, leaving his neck hot and itchy, stars sparkling across his corneas. He’s about to get a motherfucker of a migraine.

They’re sitting on the floor, and their TV’s on – low enough that it can’t be heard outside the door, high enough that they can’t understand exactly what Dad and Karen are arguing about. Though he knows it’s about them. About him. About Jack.

The front door boomerangs. The truck fishtails down the driveway; gravel skids under the tires. Dad fractionally slows, brakes squealing, then swings into the road and hits the gas. Karen bangs plates into cabinets, knocks their doors shut, slams the screen door, and it's her turn. Her car sedately bumps along. She pauses at the end of the drive, eases into the street.

It’s finally quiet.    

It’s all so familiar.

He clicks the remote and wriggles down, rests his head in Jack’s lap. 

He convinced Jack to jump off a cliff. Or a really high rock. Whatever. The point is, he did it. They did it.

“My head hurts.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

Mark closes his eyes. Jack rubs the spot, back and forth and round and round.

********

He’s at the gas station - drinking, talking shit, throwing bottles, acting like the fuck-up he is - when he sees them. Memories strobe, blind him, before he can turn away.

At first they don’t notice him, don’t realize they’re walking straight towards him. They’re holding hands, heads close together, cheeks almost touching. They’re whispering to each other. They’re happy. They’re high schoolers. They’re normal fucking high schoolers.

Mark needs to run away. He needs to stay. But mostly he needs to run away.

He’s lightheaded and queasy, guts twisting, like when he stops paying attention and Dad slaps him across the face to help him snap to.

They notice him. Sarah runs to him and hugs him and he lets her. Forces himself to put his arms around her as the guys fall silent, check her out. As he can’t take his eyes off Jack.

Who’s being a fucking asshole. Staying far away. Not moving, not even blinking. Frozen in place, a rabbit whose tiny brain lets it believe that if it’s absolutely, totally still no one can see it sitting right there in the grass.

Jack’s staring. As if it was his decision to leave, to disappear. As if his life is fantastic since dad kicked him out of school and put him to work and told him the last eight months didn’t happen. _Don’t fucking talk about it_. As if he’s wronged him.

Jack studies the broken bottle, the guys he’s with. Studies him - his dirty clothes, his dirty face, his dirty hair.

 _Go to hell. I don’t give a shit. I’m fine._ They burn away the haze from the forties, the weed. He puffs up his chest. Struts and sneers.

Fuck Jack and his longing, his puppy dog eyes and his sadness. Fuck Jack and his never spoken, ever present awareness – judgment - of him and whatever he says and does.

Mark taunts Jack. Who stands there, the dumb shit, and takes it.

He’s raging. He’s exhausted. He’s hard.

He wants to punch Jack in the face, knock him down and hammer his head against the concrete until his skull collapses with a wet _splat_. He wants to slam Jack against the wall of the gas station and yank his jeans down. Suck him off and listen to him whimper _Please, please, Mark Mark Mark_. He wants to kiss Jack and rest his head in his lap and have Jack look at him like he’s the best thing in the world.

His wish is granted. He hears police sirens and runs away. He goes for a walk and once again explains why he hasn’t fucked Sarah.

He’s still pissed off. Still tired. Still overflowing with something but there’s nowhere to put it. Miles asks _Jack, he’s your brother, step-brother?_.Then a sign from god if he actually believed in god falls right at his feet, and the guys say _gross_ and _get it away from me_ and _who would ever touch one of those_. He trashes a Corvette and riots across town. He doesn’t bother to cover his tracks. Gets another ass kicking at home, and maybe this time he deserves it.

********

He and Jack are on the bleachers at the quarry, getting high, watching the waterfall roar and spill, full up from the snow they had this year. On the way over they stopped at a head shop where Jack insisted on buying a swirly neon, hippie-dippy bong.

_It’s fun. Why take smoking seriously, Mark? Who cares what people think?_

Jack’s head is in his lap. He takes a hit. He could probably ride that fall to the bottom without cracking his head open. Could he convince Jack to do it with him?

“What’s the story you want to tell, Mark?”

“Hmmmm…???”

He’s floating, looking straight up at the sun - a fat blood orange hanging in the sky, its surface dotted with volcanoes that simmer, boil over, simmer, boil over. The clouds are shaped like dicks, like unicorns, like guitars, but they never block out the sun. He listens to the water purl and plash, luxuriates in the warmth of Jack’s cheek against his thigh. The sky is the blue of a robin’s egg. No. Of a topaz. No. Of the toilet bowl at Jack’s house.   

“The story. Your story. What do you want it to be?”

Jack’s uncharacteristically chatty. Demanding.

“That your dad – to absolutely no one’s surprise - flipped out and you never saw me again? So you’re hanging with losers at the 7-Eleven? So you’re fucking a random slut who’s famous for her smelly cunt?”

 _That’s not fair_. Before he can protest he’s flat on his back and Jack straddles him – sneering at him with his eyes the way he used to at Dad, towards the end. Jack roughly brushes his hair out of his face, grabs his chin.

“Or is this the story you want to tell….”  

Jack kisses him, first soft soft, then hard hard hard. He’s biting and sucking that spot below his ear, and Mark’s _mewling_. Jack’s going to leave a bruise, but. Jack helps him take off his t-shirt. He helps him take off his shorts. Mark’s naked. That blood orange sun is shining on him, and his toes curl. 

********

 _I’ve been thinking a lot about_. It’s scary, bizarre - fucked up - saying those words out loud. He spends all morning practicing that line, other lines, not the littlest bit high, fervently wishing he was. He seeks out Jack. Goes to _school_ and loiters near the entrance, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone until he sees him and hustles him over to their attic space. He yammers on and on about his idiot dad - his empty, shitty, useless life - before he works up the nerve to confess to Jack _This sounds insane, because I’m straight, but I’ve been dreaming about you_. He doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before Jack’s leaping across the couch and kissing him. He’s been so very patient, waiting for Mark to have this revelation, and isn’t waiting a second longer now that he’s he’s finally taken his head out of his ass.

 _Just a kiss or two, to figure out if this is what I want_. But he can’t stop. He presses Jack into the couch, grunts with irritation when their lips break contact. He grinds against Jack. Bites his neck. Grabs his hair. And Jack’s urging him on - moaning, whining, hips jerking helplessly, hands roving all over. Like all he needs is Mark.

Jack breathes _Mark_ and he pulls down Jack’s jeans, not bothering to unbutton them. Jack begs _Mark_ and he grips Jack’s dick and strokes it, telling himself not to watch but watching anyway. Jack sighs _Mark_ and he shifts position, pulls down his own pants; wraps Jack’s hand around him, guides him. Buries his face in Jack’s neck and practically humps his leg.    

Jack’s dazed and glowing. Mark nods off, relaxed now that it’s _done_ , head pillowed on Jack’s shoulder, Jack’s fingers walking up and down his spine. 

********

One night it’s late, well past midnight, and he’s bumming around, avoiding home. A bike, slick yellow chrome and headlights, leans against a lamppost. Unlocked. He doesn’t debate - grabs it and pedals off, no particular destination in mind. He savors the full moon resting on the tops of the trees; revels in the empty roads, the movement, the speed. The freedom. He makes figure eights, rides in the middle of the road exactly on the dividing line, learns if he bikes better with the lights on or off or on or off. A fox, a raccoon, a deer lurk by the side of the road, and his lights pick them out one by one.

“Hi there! Don’t be scared! It’s only me!”

He ends up at Jack’s. Karen’s car is in its usual spot. He pops off and bumps the bike over the grass so no one can hear him crunch up the driveway. Dumps it in the bushes.

He still has a key, but usually the door’s unlocked. Plus, the lock’s flimsy. He can pick it with his pocketknife.

He stands at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes, listening. Only crickets. His ears adjust, and he hears the frogs talking to each other at Hidden Pond, small animals rustling in the undergrowth. No coyotes tonight.

Mark toes off his sneakers; puts his weight on the edge of the stairs, close to the house, where they squeak the least. Exhales when the screen door opens almost soundlessly, when the doorknob turns easily. Shoes in hand he tiptoes down the hallway, pleased with his stealth.

He opens the door to Jack’s room and Jack’s spread-eagled on the bed, mouth open, air whistling through his nose. ( _No, I do not snore Mark. It’s my sinuses._ )

It’s nice to watch Jack sleep, to observe without those penetrating owl eyes, with their constant chant of _Mark Mark Mark Mark Mark_ , returning the favor. Full of nervous love.

He strips to boxers and a t-shirt and slips under the sheet; nudges Jack, encourages him to move to his side. He brushes the hair away from Jack’s neck, drapes an arm over him and closes his eyes.

It’s still dark when he’s woken by a thump and a cut-off _shriek_. He’s on his back. There’s plenty of light filtering through the curtains and, only inches away, Jack’s petrified eyes. He resists the urge to giggle. Settles for a friendly smirk. Inhales Jack's humid, sleep sour breath.

“Hey.”

“Mark, what the _ever loving fuck_.”

“You forgot to lock the front door.”

“My mom….”

“Takes those sleeping pills. And I was quiet. A ninja.”

“Your dad….”

“Is working. I’m never at home at night. Can go fuck himself.”

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”

“I was bored. In the neighborhood. I couldn’t sleep.”

“And there’s another bed in this room.”

Jack grumbles. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking high. One of these days you’re going to kill me.” But he's smiling. He lies down, rests his head on his chest, and throws a leg over him. Goes back to sleep.

He stays awake. Listens to Jack breathe. Listens to the house creak and snap.  Jack’s hair is soft. And tickles.

He wishes he wasn’t an old lady, always worrying about other people’s opinions. _What will the neighbors say?_

“Fuck that.”

 _There’s no reason to be stressed._ _I can handle this._ _This is what I want_. He repeats it to himself as he falls asleep.

“ _Pleeease_ , sweetheart, eat before you leave. Wednesday lunch is always terrible.”  

“I’ll stay in here. Leave after your mom does.”

Jack’s perplexed. He frowns, shrugs.

“S’up to you. But she’ll make you toast or eggs if you ask.”

Karen’s eyes crinkle at the corners as they stroll in.

“Mark stopped by last night…late. He was in the neighborhood and didn’t have a ride home. And since I still have the extra bed…”

She smiles brightly, chirps “Breakfast, Mark?”

She drops him off in town. He remembers the bike resting in the bushes and reminds himself to next time dig it out.

********

Mark usually has to leave for work at the ass-crack of dawn. But he isn’t seventy and sleeps as late as possible, delays the inevitable. He orders breakfast and lunch from the same deli - open early and right on the corner where his ride picks him up. There’s a girl, Corinne, who works there, and they’ve become friends.

She informed him straight away _You’re cute, but a little young for me. Also, I’m not into white guys._ He’s tempted to mention Jack, gauge her reaction, but doesn’t have the nerve. Otherwise she’s pretty cool. Lets him walk out with food without having to pay. Explains “those are old baked goods” or “there’s not enough of that chili to save - you’re doing me a favor by taking it.” When he's not working he stops by to say hi, hang out.   

One afternoon she’s about to go on break, asks him if he wants to keep her company while she has a cigarette in the alley. Next it’s weed from a glass pipe. Then mini hash brownies she made herself. One morning he comes in for his morning bagel and coffee, and as she hands him his brown paper bag she says “there’s a little treat in there for later.”   

He’ll never win a prize for impulse control. He opens the bag in the store and takes a peek. The _little treat_ is two not small, pretty damn big chocolate weed cookies. He wants to eat one right away. Corinne’s eyebrows stitch together. _Don’t be a fucking idiot_ rolls off her in waves. He goes to work.

He takes the cookies over to Jack’s when Karen’s not around. It’s cloudless and steamy, a mid-August afternoon that couldn’t wait. They sit out front in a couple of decrepit lawn chairs, butts almost touching the grass, guzzling Cokes. Mark wants a popsicle. A shaved ice. A _sorbet_. He takes off his t-shirt, spreads his legs wide to get some air. Sweat drips and puddles.

Today is a lake day. A quarry day. Running, falling, sinking, floating. Icy water below, bright sun above. If he concentrates he can conjure up the slippy, slimy mud; the _squish_ under his sneakers that seeps into them and between his toes as he clambers up the bank to dry off under a huge, quiet sky.

He eats some of his cookie. Isn’t high. Eats some more. Still isn’t high. What bullshit. This is why he smokes joints. He eats a lot more. Jack watches him, takes dainty bites.

“Shouldn’t you go slow with these? They’re supposed to be fucking strong.”

It kicks in. Jack’s right. He’s flying, head halfway between earth and sky, legs barely tethering him to the ground. He wants to move closer to Jack, but there are no walls to hold on to. No trees either.

He’s down on all fours; he crawls between Jack’s legs. A faraway voice asks _WhatareyoudoingthisisJack’sfrontyard?_ Jack smiles at him like he’s the center of the universe.

He drops his head on Jack’s thigh, rubs his hand up and down and up and down the front seam of his shorts. Jack moves from soft to hard, shifts and pants. He snickers and bites him softly through the fabric, listens to him plead _Mark Mark Mark_.

He’s in the bedroom. Jack’s been kissing him for hours, for minutes. He’s a birch tree swaying in a light breeze. Jack has him against the door, one leg between his, keeping him rooted, giving him something to melt into.

When he can’t stand it anymore he tugs Jack’s hair. He takes the hint, pulls down his shorts and briefs. Jack takes him in hand, but no one’s around, he can ask for more. Mark pushes his shoulders. _Down, down_ he orders, but not out loud. Jack sucks him in his mouth with a wet slurp and he watches, groans, bangs his head against the door.

Maybe that’s the opening Jack’s been waiting for? He’s doing new stuff – cradling, gently squeezing his balls, running a tentative, wet finger behind them and near his asshole. He bites back another groan too late and it comes out a strangled sigh. Jack gently, slowly pushes his finger partway in.

No one’s around, he can go for it. He snaps his hips with commitment, doesn’t waste time. Babbles _Jack Jack Jesus Jack._ He lets himself spill into Jack’s mouth, doesn’t tuck himself in. Jack licks him clean, pushes his nose into his curls. Mark sinks to the ground and pulls Jack toward him. He spiders into his lap, legs and arms wrapping around him, bony chest and concave belly sticking to, sliding against his.

Jack is very pleased with himself. “Like the cat that ate the canary.” Mark says the stupidest shit when he’s high. He kisses Jack, tacky and damp and sloppy, tastes salt and funk, sugar and bleach and chocolate on his tongue.

*********

He, literally, bumps into Sarah one day as he’s headed out. She’s standing outside the body shop, waiting for him. He’s glad to see her, but it’s a little unsettling. Did she ask Jack for his address? His schedule?

There’s no need to speculate; Sarah’s always been fucking direct. She takes two minutes to exchange pleasantries, and it’s “you’re not with anyone, are you?”

He hasn’t warned Jack _don’t tell Sarah_. But neither of them have mentioned it. It’s not deliberate, he’s not actively hiding it from her. With him out of school, not living at Jack’s any more, it’s tough for the three of them to spend time together. Jack hangs out with Sarah at school. Jack hangs out with him on evenings or weekends or days when he’s not working. He hangs out with Sarah…not very often. Jack and Sarah have always been tighter - talking about classes, talking about their parents, talking about next year. Mark’s not clear why Jack hasn’t told her. But he doesn’t mind.    

“Nothing serious.” He and Jack aren’t together after all. They haven’t talked about it, but he knows they aren’t dating or in a relationship. Jack knows he’s trying it out, that he’s not sure if it’s right for him. That he hasn’t promised anything. That he might change his mind.

If Jack doesn’t, he should.

“We could go out. I’ve missed you.”

He looks at her. Sarah’s blushing, but not turning away. She’s beautiful. He always knew that, but today he sees it. He moves forward and kisses her. She isn’t shy. Swipes her tongue along the inside of his lip. Leans into him. Stands on tiptoes and knots her fingers in his hair. He remembers his own advice. Takes it slow, listens to her, what she’s telling him. Her breasts, as they kiss, gently press and rub against him. He smells her perfume. He rests his hands on the curves of her ass. His dick pushes into her tummy, which returns the push, just a little. He hears cars drive past, the metallic screech and grind and pulse from the shop. Someone walks by, and he’s enveloped in a cloud of nicotine. 

Mark has a revelation. This is what he should want.

After a minute Sarah pulls away.

“Jack said he would be cool with this.”

“But we should tell him. We should tell him right now.”

*****

He wakes up in the hospital, and Dad asks him if he remembers what happened, how he got hurt.

“No. I don’t remember anything.”

“Jack said you hit your head skateboarding.”

Mark nods - carefully.  Is thoughtful. Apologetic. _Yes, I was dropping in and tanked. My bad. Sorry to stick you with an ER bill, sir. Hope Medicaid pays for it. My paycheck can cover the rest._

He closes his eyes. Breathes lightly in, out. In, out. Doesn’t move his head. Mustn’t move his head. The pain radiates from the back of his skull, licks around his temples to his forehead, drips hot oil down his face and neck and shoulders. His teeth hurt.

He hopes Jack is ok.

Jack knocks on his bedroom door. Mark’s surprised and happy. And scared. The notion that Sarah had given him a gift, a sign. The notion that Jack was too serious, too unconcerned, too much. The notion he had to share these thoughts with Jack right now. Vanished. Replaced with an uneasy sense he might have gone too far. That maybe he’s here to tell him to fuck off. That maybe Jack will stop looking at him like he’s the best thing in the world.

Jack gets angry. This is news to Mark.

But Jack is hesitant, gentle. Maybe it’s news to him. Maybe he’s also scared.

Jack’s never been to his place, in his room, before. He sits on the chair next to his bed – a polite visitor. _I came to see how you’re doing._ His quiet’s different, reminding Mark of when Dad and Karen were first together and Mark would visit, listen to Jack’s records, crash in a sleeping bag on his floor.

The weed takes the edge off. Jack was too far away, but now it’s almost right. He’s on the bed, his shoulder not touching Mark’s.

He watches Jack smoke. _What am I going to do with you?_

His t-shirt is nicely worn in, probably super comfortable.

He rests his head, and Jack says “I’m really sorry.” It’s unnecessary. He should say _I’m sorry too_ , but he doesn’t want to talk about it. He grabs Jack’s hand and closes his eyes. Listens to the cadence of his heart. Matches his steady inhale and exhale.

The mellow high adds to the wrung out washcloth feeling he’s had since leaving the hospital. And Jack, the warmth and weight and familiar smell of him, mixes in. Mark’s floating in a hot bath, body supported, mind empty.

Dad and Karen mumble by the door. But Jack’s brushing his fingers up and down that spot by his ear. He doesn’t want to move. He could stay here, like this, forever. 

********

He comes home, late, and Dad is waiting for him, empties lined up on the kitchen table. Isn’t he supposed to be at work?

He braces himself, but there’s no point, not this time. It’s a bit of a blur, Dad always going for the head first, and tonight going to town. To ensure that once it’s over, he can’t push aside what happened; to guarantee that when he looks in the mirror, he remembers who’s in control, who owns him.

Dad’s shouting. The whole block can probably hear him, but he punched him directly in the eye, and it’s hard to follow exactly what he’s complaining about. He gets the gist of it.

“I saw you, the two of you.”

“Under my roof.”

“Trying to humiliate me.”

“Sneaking around when I told you not even to call him on the fucking phone.”

“Not while I’m in charge.”

“Take you across the fucking country if I have to.”

Dad's pissed about _Jack_? He’d laugh. Or scream. Or both. If he wasn’t busy cowering on the floor, shielding his head, encouraging Dad to focus his boots on his chest, his shoulders, his back.

In the morning Dad is gone. He doesn’t so much wake up as no longer be unconscious. He stays in bed. Examines the cracks in the ceiling with the one eye available to him; chews over the night before.

Three minutes to cry, to let the tears come without stuffing them down, to snuffle and sob and let snot dribble from his nose into his mouth. He’s timing it.

Next week, next month, next year. Next week, next month, next year. Contemplating them, what they’ll bring, encourages him to creak out of bed, phone Jack. Pack up the guns.

He hurts too much to accept Jack’s comfort. He hurts too much to sugar coat the pills he forces Jack to swallow.

It comes out wrong. _I wish you were a girl._ Because then Jack wouldn’t be Jack. But how to explain that Jack's presence. His wanting. His love. His response to them. Have only created disaster after disaster for him. Each time he’s left black and blue, more fucked than before, watching everyone around him – unblemished, unharmed – fake concern. He hears them cluck _oh dear are you ok_ and _what can you expect from a boy like that_ and _isn’t that a shame_ and _he was asking for it_. He notices how they gaze past him, through him, away.        

Jack’s frustrated, angry. The tears threaten to erupt.

 _I’m sorry. I need you. Don’t leave me._ He could say any of it. All of it. He pushes the impulse deep down where he can’t reach. The cough syrup helps. 

Jack shows up at the door with Karen’s dress and lipstick on. Moves with determination towards him, presses his stained lips to his eye.  

Driving from Jack’s house to a fleabag motel. Dad wrapping his fingers around his neck, a goodbye kiss before he heads to the bar conveniently located next door. Lying on top of the sticky bedspread listening to the drunk couple next door fuck. Cycling for hour after hour through the five channels on the TV. 

He pushes Jack away. _No more._

He’s not sure he’ll ever move again.

Jack and his childish certainty. His endless desire. His inability to understand, his refusal to admit, what he’s going through. What he’s been left with. How he got here. It gives him the energy to sneer, throw his jacket at him, lurch off to the bathroom.

Mark wipes Jack off him. Inspects his eye, his lip in the mirror. An oily voice gloats: _That’s what happens to faggots. But you already knew that. You knew what was coming. You were just too weak, too stupid, too in love to stop._

Next week, next month, next year. He tries to contemplate them, but his thoughts are muffled, distant, the codeine a blanket protecting him from the cold, from what’s to come.

“Fuck it.”

Jack’s lying on his rug, almost passed out. He wakes him up. A gun for each of them. They head out.

 _This will make it better. This is what I want_. He’s repeated it to himself all day. Out here in the woods, as the trees whisper and rustle, as the sun fails to warm him, he almost believes it.

He stumbles. He falls. He looks up at the canopy and laughs at how fucking beautiful it is. 

He closes his eyes.


End file.
